


Sweet Taste of Sanity

by heilz



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Hanni is a demon, M/M, Will is an author, yay spoilers just read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-01-26 14:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1691450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heilz/pseuds/heilz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Will Graham, demons seem to lurk around every corner. Not knowing where and when to let his guard down, he isolates himself—but upon meeting a strangely beautiful demon, he finds his thoroughly constructed walls slowly collapsing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ode to Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, fandom! I've just introduced myself to Hannibal earlier this year, and this is a little project I've been dabbling in for quite a while but never felt like uploading. But since I finally got around to making my own fancy tumblr, I decided I might as well do something with it. I only hope it is worthy enough for a portion of hannigram fans to enjoy!  
> Also, I'd like to point out that I've matured from my "what-plot-yay-smut" mindset, and for this story I'd like to focus a bit more on plot than smut because I find myself drawn to my own plot, which sounds horrible and narcissistic but yeah, I'm going to shut up now.  
> *whispers* p.s. yes there's still smut, so sorry c:

Will Graham had a gift.

This gift of his wasn’t simply a high hippie’s claim to the psychic realm—no, it seemed almost meaningfully bestowed upon him to torment him night and day, relentlessly throughout his entire life as if he were nothing more than God’s plaything. But he’d come to the conclusion long ago that that role was reserved for humanity itself.

No, he was different. He could see the very scum Heaven purged, the demons that didn’t belong beyond the gates of Heaven nor Hell. They plagued him, jeered at him for having such an unfortunate ability, at his pitiful luck for being able to see the damned beings. Their mock traumatized him as a child, but the trauma flickered to varying degrees of indifference as of his adolescence and finally to a spectrum of exotic phobias come adulthood. Of course, he didn’t exactly appreciate it when psychiatrist after psychiatrist referred to him as “exotic.”

Somewhere between his childhood and teenage years, those blurred lines when he could sometimes shut the demons out quite literally, he picked up writing. Every story his fingers typed would explore a more morbid aspect of humanity than he’d liked when he reread his writing for what seemed like the first time after a trance-like session of fingers flicking over keys. He didn’t like to think that these were thoughts that constantly swam behind his conscience, but anything to keep those horrid monsters away.

Then at some point, at the unstable age of sixteen, he finished one of those “gothic” stories and presented it to a publisher, whom of which found themselves astonished by his work and in less than three months had the book flying off the shelves in virtually every bookstore in not only America but beyond borders as well. A strangely narrated tale about a boy harassed by demons—only for those inhuman beings to be proven as very much human bullies at the conclusion of the novel. It never fully registered with Will why that particular story was so interesting and great, but the attention kept his ill-meaning company at a distance.

Later, at the still-young age of twenty-seven, Will Graham was still engaged in his war against the creatures deemed figures of his eccentrically vivid imagination. Every novel created was a battle, and as the year blundered on, he found himself in a gradual descent; his fingers moving slower and slower.

But in the twisted reality that Will Graham had come to know as his life, he’d never once experienced a miracle. Even when another impossible happened, he didn’t know whether to call it a blessing or a curse. Such was the confusion Will spiraled into on the behalf of the fallen angel who called himself Hannibal.

*/*/*

Will tapped the worn and weary keys of his new laptop of three months as he sat in a local coffee shop, working on his seventh cup of bitter black brew. The smell enticed him time and time again to take a sip, but the horrid taste bit at his throat, almost choking him the same number of times the fragrance called. Such was his daily routine, though the particular coffee shop he visited varied either day to day or week to week depending on his mood.

Currently, Will felt tired. But he couldn’t exactly admit that that meant anything—he had been chased by fatigue since as far back as he could remember. Always running.

Somehow he managed to swallow down another cup, and a skeptical barista brought him another black from the counter, saying something about it being “on the house”—he couldn’t quite hear her. He was too focused on the blank white screen staring back at him.

He couldn’t type.

His fingers clicked the keys, but with less than enough force to elicit the transmittance of key to electricity to allow technology to work its magic.

His skin began to crawl. He could feel the leers of eyes made of black rubies boring into his back; soon enough, they’d be staring straight at him, right down to his soul. And they’d laugh to each other and gurgle vulgarities, and if Will said anything, they would advance further—all they were after was some cheap entertainment. And apparently, Will’s brand of entertainment was the cheapest kind around.

Fingers clicked. The innocent white remained unscathed, and before he knew it, he had company. He couldn’t bring himself to transform the demons to words, so instead, a trio rounded up in front of him and pulled up some chairs, cackling manically. They were black yaks standing on hind hooves, teeth chomping as if carnivorous. Their evil eyes gleamed, almost accentuated by their inky pelts.

 Will didn’t move. Didn’t try to cover his ears. He knew better than that.

“Aw, poor bastard child is having a rough morning. Seven, working on eight rounds? Might as well have an overdose on something of your liking, bitch. Want our help? We’ll get something that’ll make you feel nice, knock you right out.” The yak to Will’s right was laughing his words. Will didn’t know how he understood what was being said—he could hear an overlapping deep-throated groaning noise, and had always figured that was what the demons really sounded like. So how could he discern what kind of abuse was being spat at him?

Well, that was the cruel beauty of the gift. It gave no answers, simply conditions.

“I’m _fucking_ talking to you, shit-face,” the yak snarled, thrusting his muzzle into Will’s face. The demon reeked of carnage, and he nearly blanched from the stench.

“N-no.” Will immediately regretted opening his mouth. They loved it when he stuttered.

This time, the yak to his left opened its jaws to snap out, “This fucker ain’t gonna piss its pants, right? I sure as hell ain’t cleanin’ that shit up. Damn, what a pussy though.” Suddenly, it licked its chops. “I wonder if it really does have one of those. Should we check?”

The creature in the middle—presumably the ringleader, if clichés had anything going for Will—smacked the left demon upside the head with a hoof. “Know your place,” he hissed, before lowering his head and lapping at the most recent cup of black coffee that’d surely cooled by now. When he raised his head, he weighed Will’s worth with colder eyes than his companions’.

Out of nowhere, the beast’s muzzle separated to reveal two crooked rows of yellowing, rotting teeth. They were sharp.

Will got the strangest premonition that the thing was smiling at him.  

“He’ll be coming for you, Will Graham.”

 

Will awoke in his twin-sized bed at his home.

At first, the transportation didn’t make sense to him. The nearest coffee shop was a ten minute drive away, and he distinctly remembered walking to his morning retreat. But then he figured that he’d fainted from overstimulation, and someone—some _thing_ —had brought him back here.

He inhaled. Carnage. Those yaks.

Slowly—meticulously, to someone who didn’t know better—Will stripped himself free of those soiled clothes and made his way to his shower. He had it fixed to where he could not take a shower in which the water was over sixty degrees. He would not allow himself to divulge in temptation—the demons would take advantage of that.

He only slept in thirty to forty-five minute intervals. Then he would get up and write to keep his brain energized for an hour or so. Those were his nights.

Luckily, it was still morning, which meant that he hadn’t been asleep for over an hour. Once as a child, he woke up to a serpent trying to dig its way into his body via his mouth and throat. He panicked, and ripped the thing in half, which only served to traumatize his younger self further but he lived seeing as he pulled the snake’s upper half out from himself.

Treading over creaking wood floors and dodging mounds of warm, lumpy fur along the way, he made his way to the old rusting bathroom and battled with the knob to turn the water on. A faint trickle became a stream, which became a steadily flowing river of icy water. As he stepped in, he forced a grin and made himself to believe it was actually steaming water he was getting under—the effect wasn’t as, well, effective as he’d liked.

Mottled dogs made their way in and out of the bathroom as they pleased to check up on him, and he was grateful for the simple companionship he shared between the guys.

Once finished cleansing himself of his outside activities, he dried off and plopped down with at least four other warm bodies in front of his fireplace, and started it without bravado. The warm glow radiated heat off the cool gray walls of his living room, and the delicious scent of burning wood spread throughout the silent home. Silent, save the click of dog paws on hardwood.

Will was warm, and slowly the fire lulled him to sleep on a few of his dogs, who minded not in the least. These daily naps weren’t uncommon, but when he woke up an entire two hours later he recognized the feeling of fear coiling somewhere near his bowels. He shot up from his position atop multicolored lumps and his eyes habitually flicked back and forth not unlike a madman’s, scouring his living room for demons.

But he couldn’t release the pent-up breath that lurked behind his chest. Not yet, at least. He tiptoed back to the small corridor that led to the bathroom—empty. Kitchen—empty. He made his way across the small kitchen space to the only door that led to his bedroom, the place least accessible in the whole house. Of course, he’d asked it to be designed that way when he built the custom house.

His heart pattered to the beat of a quicker drum as he inched toward the threshold. He was cold again, but beads of sweat trickled from his hairline to his brows. Finally making it to the now-seemingly impending white door, he extended a shaking hand to weakly grip the knob. A flick of his wrist, and the door was open.

Dark negative space illuminated by light filtering in from a single window met his eyes, and finally the breath he’d been holding escaped him. There was nothing more to greet him.

Instead of returning to his dogs, Will entered the enticingly quiet room and shut the door behind him. His laptop sat atop an unremarkable black desk, but he ignored that. He picked up an old mystery book from his nightstand, one he’d read a thousand times over but never seemed to bore him. Flipping to a random page, he was rendered completely immersed in no longer than a moment.

The detective was being seduced by the criminal’s partner, a classic portrayal of human desire overtaking the instinct to do what was just. He liked that the novel was obviously written by a hardcore realist—the detective was shot and killed by his false mistress a few chapters later.

As he read, the light from his window faded dimmer and dimmer until he was reading without any light at all. He sighed after finishing the book from his random placement—the ending was truly the most satisfying part of the book.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven. He wasn’t tired; reading always woke him up as well as, or in most cases better than, a cold slap of water to his face. Finding inspiration from his favorite book, his fingers tapped with ease over the keys.

And so he stayed for at least an hour, until he realized something was wrong.

He glanced over his shoulder. Nothing. Yes, that was what was wrong. Nothing was there. Nothing black and evil had entered his house uninvited that entire day, yet instead of rejoicing to believe his curse was broken, Will’s eyes widened as he realized how unfortunate he was. How idiotic of him not to realize.

He recalled a gruff, scratchy voice from earlier that day. _“He’ll be coming for you, Will Graham.”_ Now, those words could hold a plethora of meanings, but as most things went in Will’s life he figured none of them would be preferable.

Now it was just a question of when. When would he be sought after, and how long would the other demons’ absence last?      


	2. When the Devil Comes Knocking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hello, I'm back~  
> I'm beginning to really get back into the writing mood with summer just around the corner for me. I've already thought up the plot for a completely different Hannigram fic, even though I probably won't end up finishing either story if I try to do both.  
> So I'll just keep that plot to myself for the time being c:

Will Graham was a household name.

Praised for over five bestselling, world-renowned novels, he was a constant figure for idolism for older teens and young adults, but a god to be nearly worshipped for middle aged men and women alike. It wasn’t only once was he referred to as a god with words.

But he could only wish he were a god as his life was thoroughly soiled by demons of every class and nature. That is, until his encounter with three yaks in a coffee shop one barely eventful morning.

It’d been a full week since then. As it was Sunday, Will started his morning off with a brief glance through some scripture. He was far from being a follower of Christ, but he’d completed reading the Bible more than a handful of times, along with other sacred works that dabbled in demons and occurrences beyond the natural. He didn’t hold any contempt for Christians, but wondered from time to time how people believed their problems could be solved by speaking to an invisible deity. 

After finishing a few chapters, he shut the worn book and placed it atop his closed laptop. He was itching to do something, anything to get his mind off the anticipation that had been growing from deep inside him ever since that fateful morning. He walked out of his room, bypassed the kitchen and headed straight for the mismatched pile of tails, paws and fur. 

Calling out to a couple of the dogs, a total of four, they came to him and followed him out the door. It was a chilly November morning, and with the light snow from the night before covering the vast expanse of farmland he owned, Will was clothed in a heavy coat, thick jeans and boots along with a wool cap to keep warm. He couldn’t completely disregard his health even in his current standstill state, waiting in cold fear until someone made a move. 

Or, as always, something.

He walked about his frozen acres aimlessly, his dogs frolicking either behind or in front of him but never out of reach. He steered clear of the forest that entrapped his dwelling in solitude—he only entered those depths while in his car, and even then, rarely. He usually had editors and the like meet him at his house rather than anywhere else. 

He had just bent down to mold a snowball, its purpose to be thrown at one of the dogs in a playful attempt, when he heard the noise. It was soft, like someone had fallen on an endless pile of feathers, but in the silence that constantly followed Will he heard it with ease. 

And just like that, his blood was ice.

He didn’t move. He didn’t want to see the thing, this “he” that had come for him. He wanted to remain in eternal anticipation, to keep the prospective fear inside him rather than getting an answer to his questions and receiving yet another real reason to fear. 

He stayed in his crouched position for what could have been years. The dogs sensed his urgency and cowered, whining to themselves quietly. 

But no other sound save his dogs’ complaints met his ears. With great effort, he raised himself as slowly as he could, having finally built up the means to scan his surroundings. Strangely enough, he found nothing.

For the first time in a very long time, the corners of his lips lifted into a smile, and he breathed out a laugh, wondering if the anxiety was finally getting to him. But as he whistled to his dogs and decided to turn in for the day, a tiny voice in the back of his head told him it’d already accomplished that long ago. 

Lunch passed. Dinner passed. Will had long since abandoned normal standards of time, but measured his days by whenever he got hungry enough to eat. Sometimes his mornings were considered at the normal late evening on a bad day when he couldn’t work up an appetite at all. He was surprised he could still down ham sandwiches after the scare he’d gotten earlier, but he appreciated the strength of his stomach nonetheless. 

After dinner, he joined his dogs at the fireplace. The remaining embers that had been glowing that morning had long since died out, and he lit a match to give rise to the flames once more. One of his dogs shoved his head into Will’s lap, and he stroked it, wondering if the calming gesture was more for his sake than the dog’s. 

Soon enough, he was lying unconscious on bundles of warm fur, vulnerable as a sitting duck. He didn’t hear the feather-light traces of sound his intruder left. He didn’t feel a hand whisper across his cheek, didn’t hear a soft voice call his name. He was so blissfully unaware that this had been happening night after night ever since the yaks came to him. The most he did was nestle deeper into the warmth—and whether it was skin or fur he was touching, he couldn’t quite know.

The first sign of any interaction was the fact that Will firmly remembered sleeping with his dogs, but ended up waking in his bed. 

“Shit…” He ran a hand through his wavy locks, willing himself to do the impossible and remember what had happened to him while he was out cold. The scariest thing about the whole scenario was that he had slept for a full eight hours. Definitely a sign of some supernatural influence. 

He tried to remember his dream. He remembered feeling like he was sleeping in the lap of God. He’d felt warm—at least, for the duration of the dream until it suddenly ended in a sea of black and he was cold again. 

Shaking his head to rid himself of these strange afterthoughts, Will dragged himself up and out of his room and into the shower. He took a colder one than usual, finding solace in temperatures nearer to thirty-two than sixty. 

There, he found the second sign.

As a circumstantial hoarder, Will didn’t exactly understand the necessity of tidiness, and usually things like toothbrushes and toothpaste were thrown around after their use, towels weren’t hung up, and most other things that could be considered haphazardly in the bathroom. But there his toiletries were, his toothbrush placed neatly in an old but freshly washed toothbrush holder, his toothpaste tube closed and clean of excess toothpaste, his towels washed and folded in their proper places. 

“He” had surely done this.

But why? Will ignored the fresh towels and returned to his bedroom to clothe himself while still wet. The long-sleeved thermal and jeans stuck uncomfortably to his skin, but he ignored his discomfort and sat himself in front of the fire that was somehow still ablaze from the night before. 

So “he” had stayed the night.

Will couldn’t do much else but stand in horror as he began to think of what was to come. This special demon that was stalking him didn’t seem like the others—no, “he” was the type to elongate his victims’ torture, to make sure they felt every last ounce of terror they could possibly produce before ending them. Will understood this, and he was afraid. 

With these thoughts consuming his mind, he wasn’t thinking clearly when he grabbed his keys that had somehow ended up on his dining table although he usually tossed them on his couch after returning home and practically fled his own home. As he climbed into his car, his dogs barked after him, shouting uncomprehensive warnings that Will failed to see.  
Then he was off, driving in the middle of the forest, still half-soaked, vision blurry as he had neglected to pick up his glasses in his panic, and heart pounding. 

It usually took twenty minutes to arrive in town. Will’s drive lasted seven.

Well, eight if you counted him attempting to park in the town square parking garage. Finding a spot was hell these days. 

He stayed in his car after he cut off the engine, waiting for that peculiar feather sound once more. After five minutes passed and no such sound was made, he exited the car and quickly made his way to the first store he saw. It was a cookware shop.

The store had many different styles of merchandise, including ware used solely in other cultures. Will glanced around, not the least bit interested in the handmade shelves that displayed the ware, though he noticed both them and the cheap classic-esque wallpaper. A lone woman seemed to be operating the store. 

“Welcome.” The girl’s voice was thick and rich; Will didn’t have much to say about country hicks. His lack of a reply didn’t shut her up, though that was its intent. “What brings you here today? New home? Renovating?”

Will glanced at her. From what he could see, she had auburn hair. Pale. Didn’t have the tan of a farm girl but must’ve been something of the like as a child. Still, he refused to return her courtesy. 

“Well. I’ll just let you shop, then.” He noted a touch of irritability in her tone, not that it meant much to him. He picked up random pots and pans that he passed, his mind still in a more blurry state than his eyesight. 

“Sir, do you need some help?” The voice was closer this time. She was standing next to him. After years of being paranoid of interaction, he wondered how anyone could sneak up on him, and he tensed. 

“No, I’m fine.”

“He speaks,” the employee said, meaning to be funny, but Will didn’t so much as look at her. 

“Do you know of any hotels or motels around here?” Will asked, holding up a fake crystal glass. It reflected the face of a madman—hair damp and tousled, face white as a sheet. He believed he might have been shivering. 

The girl shrugged. “I could look one up for you. Just passing through?” she asked, turning back to the back desk and pulling out a yellow pages. 

“No.” Will put the glass down and rubbed his eyes hard enough to see bursts of color behind closed eyelids. “But I just…need to get out.”

“Family suffocating you?”

“I don’t have a family. Just my dogs.”

“Oh. Will they be okay by themselves?” 

“Who?”

“Your dogs.”

“Oh. Yeah, they should be fine for a day…”

The girl turned back around to get a real look at Will. He looked ill, to say the least. She tapped her thigh, letting her mind run wild for a few seconds. Then she closed the yellow pages. 

“There don’t seem to be any hotels near here. They’re all at least an hour away.”

“That’s fine.”

She pressed her lips together. “Why don’t you spend the day at my house?”

Will wasn’t expecting that. What a strange proposition. He figured he didn’t look too trustworthy just then, either. “Along with the comfort of your family, I assume?”

“Nope. Not even a cat.”

Will laughed. It was low, barely audible, but the girl felt as if she’d accomplished something. “You’ll have to hang around here ’till my shift’s over, though. I’m Clarice Starling. You?” She walked back to Will and extended her hand. Will grasped it, noting that she didn’t flinch at his cold sweat.

“Will Graham.”

“Nice to meet you, Will.” 

There was a pause before Will brought himself to reply. “Likewise.” 

And thus Will stayed with Clarice until twelve o’clock rolled around—according to her, of course, as Will did not own a watch—with only a handful of interruptions by customers until a young teenage boy walked in to relieve Clarice of her duties. He had eyed Will warily, like a cat trying to label a potential friend or foe. Will guessed he decided neither, as he did not acknowledge Will any more than a stiff nod after greeting Clarice. 

They hadn’t spoke about much. Will talked about his dogs, and Clarice talked about her dream of becoming an actress. Their time alone consisted mainly of long, awkward silences and Clarice trying to get the ancient radio to work. 

Clarice had insisted she drive Will to her home north of town, but with an only shortly forgotten pang of paranoia he told her it was crucial he drove on his own. His wording hadn’t seemed to faze Clarice, and she backed off willingly. Will had already squirmed enough when he realized her house was in the opposite direction of his. 

The drive was longer than Will’s normal one to get to town, lasting almost thirty minutes. There were no immediate woods where Clarice lived, but the houses were spaced a fair distance apart, the dull tan grass dusted by less snow than what Will had got. She pulled up in a dirt driveway to a small and raised rectangular home, and Will followed suit.  
And that’s when he heard the sound again. 

With the car already turned off, Will froze mid-action from taking off his seatbelt. The feathers were closer. The sound seemed to be coming from just outside the car. He didn’t dare move his head to see the view. 

“Will?” Clarice. She was walking up to his window, but he couldn’t bring himself to look. What if “he” was standing right beside her? 

“Just…just give me a moment, please…” Will somehow found his voice, though it was rough and scratched his throat on the way up. Clarice nodded, all but understanding, and left him to go inside. 

After a full five minutes, just when his neck was beginning to scream in protest, Will let go of the seatbelt and flung his door open. It didn’t connect with any paranormal body, and didn’t fly off its hinges. Shaking, he scanned the area. Nothing. 

Well, nothing save a lone black feather lying against the dirty snow. 

How symbolic. 

Will crouched and picked it up. The feather was long, longer than a bird’s could be. He didn’t have to wonder what to do with it. He couldn’t anger whatever was stalking him. That would only increase the speed of the fall to his demise. He placed it on the driver’s seat before shutting the door, then turned to join Clarice inside. 

Her house seemed almost unlived in. It was small, yet not the kind of cozy Will pictured a small house would be. Bare pale blue walls reminded him of his own emotionless farmhouse, though she lacked the fireplace to give color to the living room. Everything seemed oddly in place, books stacked with library neatness on shelves and pieces of furniture at respective ninety-degree angles to the walls. The white carpet looked as if it were freshly bleached. 

“I don’t get people over a lot,” Clarice said from the kitchen, diverting Will’s attention from the spotless front room to the even more impressive kitchen—white countertops and matching cookware. She was making tea in a white teapot. He wondered if it was from her store. “Sorry if you don’t like tea. I’m not big on coffee.” 

Will thought that was fine. 

She served him, and he inhaled before taking a gracious sip. “Valerian. How thoughtful.”  
Clarice smiled as she poured a cup for herself. “I, for one, could use a little relaxant. I have other tea in the cupboard, if you’d like something else.” 

Will shook his head; he’d exhausted every remedy in the book to help his nerves long ago, but he didn’t mind letting Clarice think she was doing him a service. He actually did think it was quite thoughtful of her. 

“So what plagues your mind?” Clarice asked. Her question was completely objective—she wasn’t probing him for what had terrified him out in front of her house. He appreciated that. 

“Darkness,” he replied. “Things that we can’t prove exist, only to fail to prove they don’t.” He gave a half-sigh. “I guess I’m kind of like a grown child, afraid of the monsters lurking in the dark. Thinking they’ve left the closet to come and play.” 

Clarice sipped. “Do they play rough?” 

Rubbing at his eyes, Will tried to decide whether she was being considerate and simply playing along with him or was truly concerned. The former would be more reasonable, but given the way she’d handled Will so far, he wasn’t sure. 

“Quite.” 

“Do you return the favor?” 

Will laughed sardonically. “Can’t. God forbid I actually stand up for myself. That would not end kindly for me.” 

Clarice sat down at her kitchen table and gestured for Will to take a seat; he opted for one of her crisp gray couches instead. 

“So…” She collected her thoughts in her pause, trying not to sound too questioning. She didn’t want to scare Will from the subject. Clarice could tell this was something more than just a childhood nightmare. “How do you deal with the monsters?” 

Will shrugged. “I write. The words keep them at bay…for a while. But I can’t stay writing forever.” Running a hand through his hair, another sarcastic chuckle rose from deep within him. “I’m a tenacious little bastard, though. Twenty-seven years and I haven’t once tried to resort to suicide. I think I have too much pride for that or something. Like it would be a true surrender to the beasts. Their ultimate win. Though, I’m more of a pastime than anything serious to them.” Pausing to take a breath, Will realized that was the most he’d spoken in months. He felt like he’d just run a marathon. And lost. 

“I think it’s less to do with tenacity as it is to do with strength. Though you could argue they’re the same thing, in your case,” Clarice offered. 

“Yeah, well. That does a lot to make me feel better, doesn’t it.” 

“It should be comforting to know that you have the will to persevere through what’s haunting you. No pun intended,” she added, smirking when Will gave her a glance before returning his gaze to her barren walls. She had noticed he didn’t like looking at her much. 

“So do you know what triggers these…things?” Clarice decided another push wouldn’t do him any harm. And she genuinely wanted to know what Will Graham really meant by “monsters.” Were they real people exaggerated in a delusional mind, or was it something deeper than that, something psychological? Clarice didn’t know the components of psychology or even what to think if Will’s demons were surreal but all she could tell was that the need to know was rooted deep within her. 

“They’ve been there since as long as I can remember, so no.” Will’s eyebrows furrowed, as he was now deep in thought. It was strange that this Clarice Starling took such a great interest in him. It wasn’t normal by any means, and yet he was still there talking to her about all things personal without a care. He decided it was time to backtrack. “And you? You don’t have any personal demons of your own?” 

Clarice wanted to groan at her own idiocy. Well, shit. That was a bit too hard of a nudge. “My past likes to haunt me, but I’m gonna go ahead and assume that it’s nothing like what you’ve got going on.” 

“Well, tell me about it. I can’t just sit here and chatter about my life’s story all day, can I.”  
The silence that followed was all the answer Will needed. 

“If you’ll excuse me, then.” Will promptly upped himself from the couch and made way for the door, ignoring Clarice’s stutters, trying to get him to stay. Who knew what she was truly after. Maybe she was an undercover reporter, trying to pry into the sealed mind of famous author Will Graham—it had been odd enough that she didn’t recognize him by at least face or name. 

Opening the car door in a mildly angered rush, he didn’t notice that the black feather was sucked up by the breeze and carried out of the car. He drove off, leaving it and an auburn-haired girl standing in Clarice Starling’s driveway, watching him go. 

Will didn’t remember his drive home. He didn’t remember getting out of the car, opening his front door—all that he knew was that a pair of wings the color of night sat stretched in his living room, their tips reaching wall to wall. 

And then they folded, revealing a figure that turned around with slow precision, as it knew that little movements mattered greatly in making an impression on Will. 

And everyone knows that first impressions last the longest. 

“Good evening, William,” the creature, unlike any demon or monster Will had ever seen, greeted. 

“I must ask you to forgive my discourtesy, as I have let myself in without your consent. How terribly rude of me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I wasn't too OOC with Clarice...she's a bit tricky for me to write, dunno why.  
> Next chapter we get more characters and are introduced to Hanni and Will's blossoming relationship c:  
> ALSO, a big thank you to everyone who's commented so far - I will try my best to start replying to those, but school's been a bit crazy with summer so close. I hope you all know I'm not purposefully ignoring you and I appreciate everyone's kind words!


	3. Devil in Disguise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand the meeting! What everyone's been waiting for, of course. Now we can finally move forward to setting up some great Hannigram bizniz.  
> Just going to say I'm proud of this longer chapter and hope it isn't too boring - we finally get dialogue and I wanted to fully utilize that c:

Staring the devil in the eye was not something Will Graham was used to. Under normal circumstances, Will avoided demons’ eyes at all cost, whether it meant humiliation by submission or otherwise. Those depths of evil could only do him worse. But now, he was staring at this trespassing demon’s invasive irises that, he couldn’t help but notice, hypnotically covered almost all traces of white those eyes had to offer. In the shadows of his evening and unlit home, they were black.

“…You’re him.” Will was amazed that his voice held only the tiniest note of falter in it. He was amazed he had even spoken to the creature at all without being asked of it.

The demon smiled, revealing sharp yet perfectly white teeth. He didn’t reek like so many others Will had met. Adjusting his dress shirt, the demon replied, “Indeed, this seems to be the case. Would you care for me to offer my name, or does calling me ‘Him’ suffice? I assure you, I am no God.”

Will finally remembered to shut the door behind him. He’d tracked snow in from the yard, and a few flurries had blown in quite a ways during his lapse. It shut with a reluctant click of old metal, and the tumblers screeched when he locked up. Throughout his process, Will was desperately conjuring a variety of sentences he could say to the thing. But first came his reply.

“I don’t believe in God,” Will returned, taking his boots off. More snow fell to the hardwood in clumps, already melting. “But I would like to know what you are called, yes.”

The demon seemed to like his answer. He gestured to a chair by the sofa. “May I sit?”

_A demon, asking me permission? What kind of sick joke is this?_

“Yes, of course.” Even so, Will knew better than to resist the spawn of Satan.

“Thank you.” He sat. “My name is Hannibal.”

Hannibal. It made Will think of “cannibal”, and he barely suppressed a shudder.

Will walked into the living room and joined Hannibal, but on the couch. “I suppose you already know that I’m Will Graham then, Hannibal.” The name’s first roll off his tongue felt foreign, but he almost felt a sense of importance just uttering it.

“Yes. I have known about you for quite some time, William. Or would you prefer Will?”

“Will, please.”

“You enjoy simplicity.”

“No one’s called me William since I left home,” Will said, eyes free of Hannibal’s gaze and firmly glued to the wall opposite him.

“Do you miss your home?”

The question drew Will right back. What was this Hannibal playing at? “Miss it?” He debated in nanoseconds’ time whether he should answer truthfully. He reasoned that he was too smart to lie—or attempt to lie—to a demon.

“I don’t. Who would miss countless therapy sessions, brain scans, endless tests and prescriptions to try to figure out why I see beings from Hell? Plus the added pressure from my father to ‘act normal’ all the time. I did act normal. I figured that would be a given. I didn’t want to humiliate myself any more than he wanted to receive the blame for it.”

“And your mother?”

“Never knew her.” Will hissed a bitter laugh. “Didn’t have any pictures to put a face to the name. Miranda. All she left me was the concept.”

“And do you blame her for that?”

It took a moment for Will to consider his answer. “No. But I might blame my father.”

That seemed to please Hannibal. “Your cooperation is refreshing. I see that it has been ingrained in you for a very long time. Obedience, that is.” He then looked to the coffee table, as if expecting something to be there other than old magazines Will had never bothered to look at. Or throw away.

“Do you have any drink?”

“What?”

“Do you possess wine, Will Graham?”

The hint of human impatience startled Will into action. “Y-yeah, I have some. One second.” In the kitchen he searched his cupboards for an old wine sent to him a few months back from his aunt on his father’s side. It might have been the only gift she’d ever sent him, and he was apathetically suspicious that it was only a gesture of formality as he had attended his uncle’s funeral.

He didn’t know much about wine, but he wrestled the cork off before fishing out two musty wine glasses from the back of another cupboard. He poured until both were slightly under halfway filled with crimson liquid, briefly concerned about wine etiquette as he was not familiar with the subject.

He handed an unimpressive glass to Hannibal before returning to his seat. He watched with some level of curiosity as the demon brought his nose delicately to the rim of the glass, and seemed to drink in the scent before taking a refined sip. Will was beginning to realize that everything Hannibal had done so far was done with utmost poise.

“Not a connoisseur of wines, I take it. Non-vintage for Will Graham,” Hannibal commented, but when Will glanced at him after taking a drink of his own, he was smiling—albeit only with his lips.

“I guess I’ll have to tell you I have no idea what that means,” he said, taking another sip. And just like that, it hit him that he was having a conversation with a demon.

He didn’t have time to brood over the notion; Hannibal took his sarcasm in stride. “But what you lack in knowledge of wine you make up for in Canis lupus familiaris, I see.” He reached down to brush a knuckle over a mottled brown—Amber—before taking it away, almost like he regretted touching her.

Will opted to address the comment through action, and reached down to pet the dog nearest to him—Georgia, a black mutt. He kept his own questions lying just behind his lips sealed there, as if he were afraid of their answers.

“Do you want to know why I am here, Will?” Hannibal had torn the question from Will’s own tongue.

He wondered for a moment if that would be considered rude.

Even so, Will nodded, focusing his eyes on Georgia. She stared back at him, compassion set deep within her dark eyes. But all Will saw there were Hannibal’s own cold, lifeless irises reflecting back at him.

“I am here for no other reason than that you interest me. So you may relax.” Through his peripheral, Will watched Hannibal go through his routine in order to take another drink of his wine. Smell, swish, sip. “As you may be familiar with, it is easy for eternal beings to become rather cloyed with our time. You have been at the receiving end of pent-up boredom for all your life, and I am curious to see how you would live without that.”

Will told himself that it was something in Hannibal’s voice, some hidden commanding tone that made him turn around to look at him once more after telling himself he wouldn’t. He kept his nagging conscience’s voice at bay—the voice that said Hannibal’s blackened beauty was hard to ignore.

They sat in silence in reply to Will’s inability to reply. He had absolutely no idea what to say to Hannibal’s explanation. He was too far gone to even consider that Hannibal was playing at niceties—Will would probably have to offer up something of his in return, if his instincts were correct.

And they had a bad habit of being so.

Finally, Will had to break the silence. “And what’s in it for you?”

The crudely displayed mistrust appeared to amuse Hannibal, the bastard. “In return, I would like for you to grant me a temporary stay in your life. You may pretend I am not here, if you like.” His small, lipped grin fled his face, and he took another sip—Will realized that Hannibal was waiting for an answer.

_You didn’t exactly ask a question, you know._

“If it’s just that,” Will nodded slowly as he spoke, weighing the pros and cons with quick calculation, “then I’ll accept. Peace has eluded me long enough.”

The grin returned. “Then we have ourselves a deal.”

 

The first week with Hannibal was strangely ordinary, as Will had gotten almost used to the absence of reeking demons come to do him harm. What he could not get used to, however, was the strange sensation that eyes were always upon him, studying him for everything he was worth. But it was even more unnerving to turn and find his eyes meet Hannibal’s—cold assurance that he was, in fact, being watched.

Like a lamb before slaughter.

He didn’t know whether it was worse to have Hannibal’s protection from other demons, or if he’d rather entertain the lowly beasts’ short attention spans. The newly forged relationship he shared with Hannibal scared him on a different level than anything he’d felt in the past. And yet the winged demon had barely spoken to him, save their conversation over cheap non-vintage wine when they’d met.

Will had returned to writing, caving not to his editor’s increasingly vicious demands but to his own conscience. The sixth sense-like habit he’d developed of escaping to a world of his own words whenever he felt threatened was forever ingrained in him, and just because the other demons were nowhere to be seen didn’t mean they didn’t linger in his mind’s eye.

In consequence, Hannibal had the pleasure of peer-editing his work. Well, he called it peer-editing, but it was less editing and more Hannibal reading with that impassive expression he always wore. Will didn’t know if the devil really liked his writing or not, but he always read it after Will was done for the day.

Another week went by. Minimal words were exchanged. At some point, Will found that his stock on food was low. He also came to realize that he had not been out of his house since his return from Clarice’s. He searched out his keys and was out of the house without a word to Hannibal, keeping their strange unsaid agreement to not speak until spoken to. He didn’t know if it worked both ways, and he didn’t care.

He’d made it all the way to the supermarket before he felt eyes again.

Will stalked around the local Wal-Mart, throwing assortment of bags of chips and sliced meats and bread into his basket. He got a carton of eggs and some milk, and a box of Cheerios. The essentials of a simple—or in Will’s case, neglected—diet.

“Will.”

That accented voice came from directly behind said man, and he flinched forward, away from the quiet assault. He spun around, eyes wide behind black-rimmed glasses.

“Would you mind if I did some shopping of my own?”

The question was one of many things Hannibal surprised Will with. The brunet’s brow creased.

“What for?”

“I would like to make dinner for the both of us, tonight,” Hannibal replied, and put his hands behind him. “I believe money is not an object to you, as renowned of a celebrity as you are.”

Will found himself laughing at the comment, though unsure whether it was meant sarcastically or otherwise. “Right. Well, you can lead me to whatever you want to buy. I’m done on my end, I guess.” He didn’t miss the contempt glance Hannibal gave his cart.

So Hannibal directed Will in collecting the ingredients for a dish whose name sounded exquisitely foreign and something Will decided he would not appreciate. He tossed assortments of meat haphazardly on top of chip bags and bread, at which Will noticed Hannibal frowning at and removing any items that lay on top of the bread loaf. He then, apparently, thought it wise to move the bread to the bottom of the cart, safe from Will’s thoughtless shopping tactics.

It was when Will completed Hannibal’s mental list of needed ingredients and was checking out did it finally dawn on him. The cashier eyed both Will and the figure behind him—that figure being Hannibal.

The cashier could see Hannibal. Everyone could see Hannibal.

Will turned without warning, but Hannibal did not flinch. His eyes flicked to Will; he said nothing.

“You—”

“Your total will be one hundred and thirty-six dollars and seventy-three cents,” the cashier spoke above Will. He turned around and handed the boy two crumpled hundred dollar bills of the five he’d stuffed in his pocket before leaving his house, which the boy marveled at.

As the teenage employee scrambled to collect change, Will craned his neck to take in Hannibal with the comprehension that everyone else could see the same thing for the first time.

“Here’s your change, sir.” The boy’s hesitant voice—how fickle people were when it came to money—brought Will back from his moment of consideration.

Without even a glance at the kid, he took the change, shoved it, and grabbed the presented plastic bags without ceremony. He missed one, and Hannibal collected it as he followed Will.

They almost made it out the front automatic doors without incident.

Before Will knew what had happened, his groceries were lying scattered atop the front tile of the store, and a girl was bending down to pick them up, apologizing. When she stood after collecting the groceries back into their bags to hand them to Will, they both froze.

“Will Graham.”

“Clarice Starling.”

Behind Clarice, a pretty brunette spoke up. “A friend of yours, Clarice?”

Clarice resumed her momentarily forgotten objective and handed Will his bags. “Yes.” She glanced to him, as if to make sure he wouldn’t protest her affirmation. He adjusted his glasses.

Finally, Clarice noticed Hannibal. “And I assume this is a friend of yours?” She was looking at the demon in disguise, but her words were directed at Will.

Will didn’t open his mouth—Hannibal didn’t give him the chance to. “I’m Hannibal Lecter. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Starling.” He extended his hand, and she took it. Will witnessed Hannibal’s smile once more after the shake, his oddly fitting closed-mouth quirk of the lip. His eyes crinkled, yet it somehow made him look as young as Will, and for a split moment Will forgot that demons were immortal and Hannibal was likely millenniums old.

Lecter. He wondered if the name had some age-old sentimentality behind its meaning.

The girl behind Clarice spoke up. “I’m Alana Bloom. Nice to meet you Will Graham,” she addressed him first, who gave her a single nod for her effort, then Hannibal. “And it’s nice to meet you as well, Hannibal Lecter.”

“I am glad that the both of us please you, Miss Bloom.”

Will watched the two girls laugh.

Hannibal turned to look at Will, then back at Clarice. “Miss Starling, I am afraid that we have bought too many ingredients for a derisory two portions of encornets farcis, and I would like to invite you and Miss Bloom to accompany Will and myself to eat, if my host will allow it.” He didn’t look at Will.

A sigh threatened to escape his throat, but Will fought the urge, deciding that that would only please Hannibal all the more. He’d already begun to pick up the fact that the demon seemed to enjoy his distress.

“Sure, why not,” he mumbled, eyes to the tile where his food was lying only a minute beforehand.

“We’d love to.” Clarice smiled along with Alana, before turning to Hannibal. “What did you say the dish was?”

“Encornets farcis. A French dish.” He smiled. “I hope there are no aversions to pork or squid.”

With that, they left Clarice and Alana to shop after Will had given Clarice his address. They’d said that they would try be at Will’s house that night around eight. That left the pair four hours.

Will didn’t object when Hannibal joined him in his car. He merely fumbled for his keys and shoved the correct one in only after three incorrect guesses. If he’d be the one to give this demon any more reason to gloat, he’d be damned. He could see Hannibal’s grin through his peripheral.

“How nice of you to play along, Will.”

“I liked that no-talking thing we were doing earlier. Let’s play that game.”

“It was rude of me to ignore my host. I apologize.”

“No apologies necessary. Now if you want to be _polite_ , then _please_ shut up.”

That earned him a chuckle that felt like a slap. He’d played right into Hannibal’s goading—and even though they were just having conversation at the moment, Will got the strange premonition that Hannibal could goad him into anything if he so pleased to.

Just like he had only a couple of minutes before, with him manipulating Will into inviting Clarice and her friend to dinner.

He started the car after rubbing his eyes under the glasses. Hannibal was watching him. All at once, he felt sick. He didn’t want to go home, but he didn’t have anywhere else to go nor a place he felt he wanted to go. He felt lost. The sound of his old engine’s loud purr surrounded him. He closed his eyes and put his brow to the wheel. He felt like he could hear a voice, but it was foggy and distant, as if he were underwater and someone from the surface above were trying to contact him.

And then a hand reached into the depths and pulled, and he broke above the waterline into dark night accompanied by a freezing wind that almost laughably seemed to be trying to talk to him.

Then he made out the words.

“Will. You had fallen unconscious,” a deep voice with a foreign intonation was cooing to him. Will shuddered as he fully woke, taking in the scene of a moderately dressed man at the wheel of his car, focused on the road but still talking to him. For a few moments, he couldn’t place a name to the well-kept profile, so he simply listened with as much attention as he could offer. “How do you feel? Your face is pale.”

Will grunted and turned to his side to better his view of this stranger. “I feel like I’ve been beaten ’round the head a couple times, that’s how I feel.” He brought a hand to his head to rub his temples, but he froze when a haunting smirk found its way to the stranger’s lips.

Hannibal.

Will jerked upright, eyes flicking in every direction. They were on a side road. It looked familiar. So Hannibal…was taking Will home.

“You had fallen unconscious,” Hannibal repeated, “so I took it upon myself to take you home. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No…” Will didn’t feel the word leave his lips. He was still taking in the fact that a demon was driving him home—the most complex demon he’d ever encountered. The title foe occurred to him.

“Well. I suggest you get some rest while I cook dinner. We wouldn’t want to pull a scene with company over, would we?”

Will nodded and put his head back down. The last thought to echo in his mind before the blackout was “we”.

 

Will awoke to a wondrous aroma of cooking meat and herbs. He climbed out of his bed, which he had been neatly tucked into, courtesy of Hannibal. He stepped out into the kitchen, greeted by a few of his dogs while the others sat expectantly at Hannibal’s side, licking their chops in anticipation of a dropped morsel.

He got the feeling they wouldn’t be getting anything.

“Good evening, Will. Feeling better?” Hannibal addressed him without turning away from his cooking.

“Yeah, more or less…” Will rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Seven o’clock. You have an hour to get ready, so I suggest you use your time wisely.”

He nodded, though Hannibal still had his back to him. Will noticed that Hannibal had somehow changed out of his dress shirt and into two pieces of what would be a silver-toned three-piece suit.

It highlighted the very loud absence of the demon’s wings.

“How do you hide your wings?” Will asked, leaning against a countertop.

The demon replied, almost laughing, “Years of practice. They are very flexible. But yes, they are there.”

“Could other people see your wings like they can see you?”

A pause. Hannibal put down his utensils and finally turned to look at Will. “Yes, they could. Which is why I had to train to be able to keep them folded in such a way that they would not be seen.” He returned to whatever he was cooking. “Are you worried about me, Will?”

“Just curious,” Will deadpanned, though he felt a small spark of exhilaration at throwing Hannibal’s own words back in his face. He didn’t know whether that caused a reaction, but Hannibal didn’t reply.

By the time the hour was up, Will had toyed with his hair to tame it best he could, had cleaned his glasses, and was wearing the only dress shirt and jacket he owned. When he’d walked out of his room after changing, Hannibal had wordlessly handed him a tie that matched the ensemble. Will didn’t question his gesture.

Now he sat in his living room, in wait for the telltale ring of his doorbell. Hannibal was finishing up in the kitchen, the only difference of the scene being he had slipped on his jacket and everything had been cooked to perfection and placed meaningfully on plates. His dramatic movements as he put the final touches on the dishes reminded Will of a theatre performance.

Just as Hannibal stood up from his work, apparently satisfied, the doorbell buzzed.

“Well,” Hannibal said, “just in time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. So I didn't get around to introducing all the new characters I wanted to (I at least wanted to include Freddie or Chilton or something...) but we get Alana! And I thought her and Clarice being friends would be kind of cool, but maybe that's just me. Anyways.  
> Dinner scene comes next - and who knows what Hannibal was really using to cook his fancy French cuisine while Will was all unconscious and stuff c: (Not going to get too detailed with the cooking, I just kind of looked up a French dish with meat - don't hate me, but I'm probably not gonna spend fifteen minutes learning the ins and outs of cooking sausage and squid...)

**Author's Note:**

> (p.s.p.s. I am very new to AO3 in terms of posting and whatnot, so I will try my best to keep the format as nice and clean as possible c:)  
> Until next chapter!


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